Never Doubt A Word
by Imperial Pigeon
Summary: Five times Loki showed Thor that he loved him. Pre-Thor.


I.

Thor is drunk. Again.

This is not an uncommon occurrence, Loki finds himself thinking, half-irritated, half-fond. However, most nights Thor is not seated next to the chief delegate from Vanaheim, who wears a rare and expensive dress spun of moonlight itself.

And Thor's mug of mead is _there_ , and his arms are flying _there_ and _there_ , and oh, this is leading up to a truly exquisite little disaster.

Loki sighs.

A few moments later, the whole hall hears as Thor erupts into a loud shout of "Who has taken my cup! Show yourself, lily-livered thief! Fiend! Pans-y!" On the last word, Thor hiccups.

The feast settles back down into the customary ear-splitting raucous. The servers, showing an intelligence Loki had not been sure they possessed, do not bring the mead jar near Thor, despite his increasingly incoherent demands.

At least the Vanir woman spares him a quick look of thanks.

II.

Loki does not like quests. He does not like camping out in the woods. He does not like slaying beasts. And he does not like the celebratory feasts that they must endure after every successful venture.

Thor and his compatriots do not seem to have grasped this.

"Come brother, it will be a true adventure!" Thor says happily. Volstagg smiles encouragingly. Sif glowers as she runs a whetstone over the blade of her dagger.

When Loki merely raises an eyebrow, Fandral attempts to help Thor. "We will win much fame for ourselves if we defeat the dread Ogathar, and 'tis said his hoard is piled high as a mountain!"

"It will be a mighty test of strength," Hogun adds, before falling silent again.

Loki has books to read. He wonders if anyone will ever understand this.

"Brother," Thor says, face falling, "It will be great fun. You must join us."

It will be miserable, of course, Loki holds no illusions.

"Oh very well," he says.

III.

"You'd better be dying," Loki says. "Else you've no excuse for the noise you're making."

Suddenly, Loki has a handful of distressed Thor. More than a handful. The hands would have to be quite vast to consider Thor a handful. Perhaps a storm giant's hands.

"Loki!" Thor says.

Loki manages to dislodge him. "What?"

"The Lady Katja will be at tonight's feast!" Thor waits expectantly.

"Thor, it sincerely pains me to inform you of this, but _I cannot read your mind._ "

"We have been dallying together," Thor explains. "And I promised her a gift when I saw her next. Yet the promise passed from my mind. And now my doom is set."

Wanting to roll his eyes at Thor's melodrama, Loki answers him nevertheless. "You own countless treasures. Choose one and gift it upon her." He waits for Thor to leave, his dilemma solved. "Well?"

Thor shifts on his feet. "I did promise her a bracelet. Made of gems. Gems that reflect her vast beauty."

The problem becomes abundantly clear. "And you always take the weaponry we find on our little quests. The great Thor does not own a petty bracelet to gift his wench."

Thor obviously wants to challenge the word wench, but he thinks the better of it. After all, only Fandral and Loki take the necklaces and the bracelets made of gems, and Fandral gives his away as soon as he gains them to whatever woman catches his eye.

"Do not look to me," Loki says, terribly amused. "I am not in the habit of losing my prizes to wastrels who cannot find the time to purchase a bracelet in the market."

Thor's expression resembles a man pierced through the back on a battle field. "But Loki!" His voice rises to a near whine. Not a real whine, of course. Thor is _far_ too manly to whine.

"I leave you to your fate," Loki says, stepping definitively away. Then he pauses, as if struck by a memory. "But what of that small bracelet, made of firestones a few years back? It caught your eye. You'd swept it away with your loot before anyone could protest. Surely you haven't lost that?"

"A firestone bracelet?" Thor says, eyes lighting with hope. "I do not remember – but I will check."

Loki closes his eyes for a moment and mutters a brief spell. Then he waits for Thor's exultant yell.

"I have found it! I am saved!"

Volstagg has heard Thor's yell. He is smiling. "A lucky chance, that," he remarks. "Still, you might have just given him one of yours."

Loki ignores him. Thor is bubbling to Sif "I did not know I had it in truth. I had forgot! It is my luck that Loki has a long memory, though I wish he were quicker to give a gift than a witty word."

Of course Thor doesn't remember that firestone bracelet.

It was never his.

IV.

"Why're you doing that?" Loki says, as arrogantly as he can manage.

The warrior stops his motion. "Prince Loki, I did not see you there." He bows. "As you must know, I am training for my bout against your noble brother."

"Well, I know that," Loki says, rolling his eyes slightly and sneering. "I'm not a fool. But you're practicing a lower left jab, yes?" He continues speaking without waiting for an answer. "Surely you know that Thor is weak on guarding his upper right."

The warrior freezes. "But in the sparring matches I watched – "

"Oh, he's very careful to protect it in practice. But in the heat of battle – " Loki shrugs. "It's a difficult weakness to remove." He casts a critical look over the warrior. "You will beat him, won't you?"

Puzzled, the warrior says, "Are you so eager for your brother's defeat?"

Loki allows a nasty expression to settle on his face. "He beats me often enough, I don't see why he should not receive the same treatment."

"I see." The warrior remembers his manners. "A pleasure to meet you, prince Loki."

Loki stays long enough to watch the man begin to practice his upper right jabs. Then he goes back into his room, shuts his door, and laughs.

V.

Thor isn't supposed to be ill. Everyone knows that Loki is the sickly one, the weak one.

Sif's looking at him. Probably thinking it should be him in the healing berth, not Thor. Loki's face should be pale with sickness – not, he thinks, that it gets much paler – and Thor should be golden and worried by his bedside.

Loki stands. "He won't wake. There's no point staying."

Sif's lip curls. "When you lie ailing, Thor naught goes but from your side!"

"Well," Loki says. "I'm not Thor, am I."

As he leaves the room, Sif spits at the ground. He almost stops, but there's no point in fighting her, and he doubts she'll understand. Loki isn't Thor. He knows that.

The hour is late when he returns to Thor's bed. Sif and the others are scattered about the room. Volstagg is snoring.

Loki places his hands on Thor's chest. He closes his eyes in the dark, feeling the weakness of Thor's breaths. The spell is a simple one, compared to most. In the crafting tongue, he whispers, "There is a burden upon him and it is mine. There is a curse upon him, and it is mine. There is a darkness upon him – " holding Thor tight as a shudder runs through his body " – and _it. is. mine_."

With a gasp, Loki pushes himself to his feet. His legs are beginning to tremble, but he can still stand. Where he had been grasping Thor his nail have made red crescents on Thor's bare skin, but already the marks are fading.

When dawn breaks, Thor will wake to find Loki sick and sleeping.

Loki gently touches Thor's still pale forehead and thinks, _this is the way that it is_.

.

.


End file.
